


Dogtags, A Scarf and A Coat

by OnlyForward



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Confession, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Reichenbach, TRF, dogtags, post trf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:00:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24396148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnlyForward/pseuds/OnlyForward
Summary: Sherlock comes back after TRF and reveals himself to John during the proposal. But instead of punching him in the nose John takes him home to Baker Street, where they confess to stealing, scars, and a whole lot moreJohn comes back to focus on him as Sherlock is staring at the floor. "John, I’m going to take off my shirt now."
Relationships: John Watson/Mary Morstan, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Sherlock/John - Relationship
Comments: 4
Kudos: 129





	Dogtags, A Scarf and A Coat

"Oh, so your brother, Molly, and 100 tramps!" 

John glared at him, Mary by his side blinking as though she knew what was going on but also knew not to intervene. Probably wise. Sherlock did not know what John’s next actions were going to be but he supposed it had something to do with re connecting his fist with Sherlock’s face.

But his anger filtered out as Sherlock stared at the floor, unsure of what to retort with. Well. He’d calculated 13 responses to that statement but none of them would be constructive or contribute to the already confusing conversation. 

Instead, John unclenches his fist and turns to his partner (Partner. Sherlock despises even thinking of it. If he hadn’t intervened tonight they would be classified as fiancés, but he cannot do that to his beaten and shattered heart, not tonight of all nights). 

"Mary, please go home. I...can’t...I need to just," John’s always struggled about talking with his feelings and Sherlock opens his mouth to help him along but Mary, oh, what a surprise that woman, understands. He’s silently concerned that he let someone other than him get close to John. Probably deserved that, though, even if this ice cold dagger hurts far more than any lashings in a basement in Syria. 

"You take Sherlock back home." She kisses his forehead, as though the goodbye is meaningful, and whispers, "talk to him," into his hair, as though Sherlock wouldn’t be able to hear. Or at least wouldn’t be able to deduce it. But he can.

God he wishes he could kiss John’s hair like that. It’s just not fucking fair. 

All of this, to find John Watson ready to place his hand in marriage to a woman he’s never met. 

Mary departs and they stare at each other for another minute before John balks and decides it’s too creepy. Sherlock thought it had been rather fun - that was undoubtedly the longest eye contact they’d shared, although it didn’t have the fondness that the glances they shared had held previously. Another swallow, deep this time. It’s his fault, this rift between them. 

In another life time perhaps. If there was no Mary. Maybe the companionship that once developed into friendship could have developed further into a relationship. Sherlock’s first proper relationship, because he couldn’t count drug-addled trysts as meaningful, not really. John’s companionship in that way would complete him as a human being. 

But Sherlock Holmes trudges back to Baker Street, a sore back from John’s army tackle and a worry that the man next to him was silent. 

Mrs Hudson was asleep, and thank god for Mycroft who had given them a key. Both of them knew where the creaky steps were and avoided them - Sherlock setting the way out for John in case he had forgotten. Like a silent ritual. 

221B was dusty, and so Sherlock’s Adam’s Apple bobbed. He knew John hadn’t been living here in quite some time, obvious from the file and when he first saw him in the photos. But it was still different to see the lack of use and unloved ness bleed out from the flat. The dust, for one thing, hatefully reminding him of Moriarty. The curtains, drawn, as though there was something to hide. 

It was almost as weird and wonderful as he had left it. Except he’d been gone a long time, and even his neglect on cleaning wouldn’t develop to this standard. 

"Mrs Hudson didn’t want to rent it out," John fills the silence. "When I...um...moved out. So you can move back in. Might need a duster. Or a full sweep by Mycroft’s people."

Sherlock nods back, settling into his chair with discomfort. It’s not as used to him as he’d like it to be - harder and less worn. John’s, too. They have a lot of catching up to do. 

"I sort of...took your violin. Mycroft tried to take it from me about a month after but when he saw the state of me...well I haven’t seen him since, needless to say."

"I can assure you," Sherlock said quietly, wishing for a glass of scotch to be in his fingers so he could sip out of it lazily. "Mycroft has been keeping a close eye. What else did you take?"

John’s eyes fall to the floor, his left foot tapping on the floor. "You know."

"I do not know, I can assure you. The information has been kept privy from me." Sherlock has not been told explicitly, but he had deduced it. 

"Just a few things. Er...your scarf, for one thing. And the cushion from my chair." That explains why John keeps shifting uncomfortably. 

"And...." Sherlock drawls. There’s one more. One big one. 

"Your coat. It’s at my place. I’ll have to bring it back to you-" John looks vulnerable, as though it was something he’d prefer to avoid. The look on his face was twisting the cold dagger further into his heart so Sherlock blurted out:

"Keep it," Sherlock waves a hand, pointing at the door. "Mycroft has spares, I’ve got a new one. New chapter, so to speak." 

Granted, it was never quite the same. Starting again. None of the same scents as before. He’d have to get it used to London again, but then, he’d also have to acquiesce himself with London again. Sherlock had been away from home for far too long. Away from John for too long.

"Thanks," John obviously doesn’t want to explain his hesitancy. But he doesn’t have to - something in Sherlock’s brain snags as he remembers that he’s done the same thing. He should admit it, probably, that he took a piece of John. It’s not as open as a coat or a pillow. More personal, more likely to be missed. Although by possessing his coat, John holds a piece of his heart.

As Sherlock readjusts in his chair to steeple his hands together metal scrapes across his chest. It’s not cold, because the chain has had a permanent residence on his clavicle for two years. Dog tags, John’s of course. They lay claim to Captain John Watson being in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers and Sherlock clutched then whenever he felt a desperate need to float into his John wing. 

If Sherlock tells John about the dog tags then he’ll subconsciously have to know that it is basically a love confession. Neither of them is ready for that, a feat that only they can say. What, 4 years of knowing each other and they still can’t bloody talk about their feelings. 

So no.

"Molly Hooper and Mycroft." John chuckled. "It’s weird, I never imagined. What it must have been like to be in on it all. Did you have meetings, weekly updates? Check no one was catching up to the scheme?" 

Sherlock remained silent and John took that as means to continue.

"Monthly meals at a secret pub, all wearing disguises, perhaps? Or Mycroft just buying them off. Talking about what you were up to, you regaling them with stories of posh pretentious clients whilst you were in disguise."

Sherlock grasped the concept that John really didn’t understand what he’d been doing. "John."

"A cabin up in Scotland, maybe? You being all by yourself would drive you insane, so maybe not then. You’d have shot yourself out of boredom."

"John." Sherlock repeats, closing his eyes. There’s only one way for John to fully understand, fully comprehend what he was doing and why.

When John’s carrying on with his tangent, looking away from Sherlock, he surreptitiously takes the dog tags off his chest and places them in his blazer pocket, ready to return later. The blazer comes off too, until it’s just his shirt. 

John comes back to focus on him as Sherlock is staring at the floor. "John, I’m going to take off my shirt now."

He blinks and waits for the sarcastic remarks about them not being a couple and "whatever will people think" but nothing comes but spluttering as he undoes the first button. John is staring at him intensely now and he’s not sure how much this has become a strip tease.

That isn’t the intention. 

Sherlock’s back is roped in scars from whips, lashings, more. He’s covered with marks from stab wounds (no gunshots, surprisingly), and punches and deep purple bruises that will take a long time to recover. 

His alabaster skin is not like it was before he fell to the ground and left London. 

John blinks again and says nothing. When Sherlock removes the shirt fully and turns to show his back, he can hear the audible gasp John makes, and the hand over his mouth as he tries to control it. He’s been in the army - he knows not to react too heavily to people’s scars. It’s one reason he’s comfortable showing them to John.

Sherlock is ready to turn around when a warm finger touches his shoulder, tentatively asking whether it can touch, without words. He nods, speechless himself, and swallows yet again. 

John caresses a scar with care and then sits back, letting Sherlock turn around and put his shirt back on, feeling completely open and vulnerable.

His doctor places his head in a hand and murmurs, "Not a holiday."

Sherlock takes a chance and slides the dog tags he’s claimed (stolen) back onto his chest without John seeing. "No. Not a holiday."

John doesn’t need to know the details now, and no way is Sherlock up to explaining them to him in any level of accuracy that John deserves for the disappearance. The death, the grief, the pain, the hurt. His scars don’t forgive that - will never forgive it. They just help give him reason.

"You need to get back to Mary," he comments. It’s late, and John promised he’d be back. Didn’t he? Sherlock runs through the conversation in his mind. "You take Sherlock back home" were the words she’d used, but that implied John was coming back to their shared flat afterwards. Drop off your weird not dead friend and then come home to explain it to me.

John laughs, really laughs, and then looks at Sherlock with that fond smile. "Do I though?"

Yes, yes, he absolutely does. He has a botched proposal to fix and a loving caring girlfriend who Sherlock can tolerate despite being violently jealous of her. He needs to leave Sherlock in peace to drown himself in alcohol and not give him false hope by staying the night with him. 

But no, no, the jealous side of him says. Why should John go back to Mary, who has had him by her side for the last few months, who has held his company late in the evenings in a way Sherlock will never get to? Surely, if a lifetime of marriage is what is destined for John then Sherlock deserves this one night for some kind of celebration that he’s back? Surely he gets something for all of the work he’s done over the last two years for John?!

"I don’t need to go back, Sherlock. When she said goodbye she meant it. I’ve talked about you, you know. To her, and quite a lot of people really. I made it open to the people I dated that there had been someone in my life who I considered my soulmate who had died. That scared some off, some were intrigued. From the way I grieved for you, people perceived that we were a couple. And we could have been, and I realised that I’d wanted it."

Sherlock’s mouth is agape yet he still remains speechless, attempting and failing to process this information, this data John is spewling at him like he’s not going to ever stop.

"So when I met Mary I told her that you had an important position in my life and you were going to be put first - even though you are, were - sorry, habit - dead. She knows me better than I think most people do and she knows that her and I...won’t be getting married. In fact I won’t be dating her." John’s looking at him like one of his girlfriends, like when he wants to charm someone.

"What, pray tell, will you be doing instead?" Sherlock’s face, although he’s attempting to maintain a level of composure, is exuding fondness and happiness and a beaming smile that only John ever gets.

"Well, hopefully," John’s breath hitches and he stands up. "Dating my soulmate."

Sherlock stands up too, and they are closer than before, closer than he could have ever dreamt they would be. And when John kisses him his mind shuts off into nothingness and it’s bliss.

"I love you," he blurts when they separate.

"I know," John does that smile and kisses him on the forehead. "I love you too, idiot."

And Sherlock has never been more fond of one of John’s girlfriends ever before.

And he’ll never have to be again.


End file.
